


Grovel

by AKVade



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also a blowjob kind of, Bar, Drinking, Established Relationship, Fail!Stiles, Grinding, It's my first fic be nice, Just Stiles being a special snowflake, M/M, Not failwolf, Not fighting, Some sort of drunk crack, Stiles fails, Stiles tries to make Derek jealous, but not the way you think, drunk!Stiles, how do you tag, i think, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:13:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKVade/pseuds/AKVade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles tries to make Derek jealous, and fails miserably. But not in the way you think.</p>
<p>“I came here,” he continues to slur angrily, jabbing a finger in Derek’s general direction, “to make you jealous fuckface, but I can’t even do that. Ugh.” He has to pause to drown himself briefly in his drink. It’s an alarming shade of bright pink, and Derek is eyeing it with something akin to suspicion. “You were supposed to grovel at my feet! It’s all your fault.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grovel

**Author's Note:**

> I accidently wrote, and - 
> 
> It's my first fic upload on here, and I am uber nervous in the face of all the glory that is Sterek fanfiction. I am open to critique, but make it constructive, not destructive.
> 
> Not beta read, I'm too lazy to find one, and I also don't really know anyone?
> 
> I am a lone wolf.

Derek finds him sulking by the bar. Stiles is _so_ wasted by that point, he’s started talking to his glass of whatever-the-fuck-he’s-drinking-now. He’s in the middle of recounting the current events of the evening to the half-empty glass when Derek slides onto the bar stool next to him.

“And then the put his hands on my ass” he’s saying, slurring every other word, “and I felt my ball sack, like, curl up into my dick or something. Like they tried to burrow inside me or – _Jesus Christ Derek_.” Derek doesn’t even have the decency to, god forbid, announce his presence. He just raises his eyebrows and flags down the bartender without looking away from Stiles’ glower (which turns out to be quite ineffective when his eyes can barely focus on anything in front of him).

Derek, the asshole, just looks at him all innocently and says “what were you saying about your ball sack?” like he doesn’t know why Stiles is trying to drink his weight in alcohol. Stiles feels like Derek needs to be aware of his ass-holery, so he tells him “you’re an asshole. You’re an asshole, and all of this is your fault.”

“I came here,” he continues to slur angrily, jabbing a finger in Derek’s general direction, “to make you jealous, _fuckface_ , but I can’t even do that. Ugh.” He has to pause to drown himself briefly in his drink. It’s an alarming shade of bright pink, and Derek is eyeing it with something akin to suspicion. “You were supposed to grovel at my feet! It’s all your fault.”

Derek looks confused. “I – what? How is this _my_ fault? You’re the one that –“

“Because,” Stiles interrupts, waving his arms around, and only missing knocking his glass over because Derek snatches it out of the way. “ I was planning on coming here to dance with someone and stuff, but there is clearly something wrong with me, since I can’t even stand to have other people put their hands and, like, dicks or whatever, all over me.” Stiles frowns like this is the worst thing he’s ever heard. “I don’t like people who aren’t you touching me.”

“And this is supposedly a bad thing?” Derek muses, but he’s smiling a small, smug smile that he tries to hide from Stiles, but Stiles sees it. He’s momentarily torn between wanting to tear it off his face, and wanting to keep it there forever, but the sight of the smile is so overwhelming, it has him acting out.

“I see it!” Stiles cries, lurching forward ungracefully, and ending up half sprawled in Derek’s lap. He digs his fingers into Derek’s jaw and holds the smile in place as much as he can. “I see it,” he whispers conspiratorially in Derek’s ear, “you can’t hide your secret smile from me, you goon. Oh my God, do you like that I can’t even dance with other people? You totally do, don’t you.”

Derek pushes Stiles’ grabby hands away, but arranges them so Stiles is settled more comfortably in his lap. “You are _ridiculous_ ,” he responds, settling his hands on Stiles’ waist. “You don’t have to make me jealous, Stiles.”

“But I wanted to,” Stiles pouts. “So then you could go all growly and overprotective, then save my virtue and then drag me off somewhere and ravish me. Either that or grovel at my feet, seriously the _groveling_ , I was so counting on the groveling. And then for you to give me a blow job!” He finishes with a flourish, which means he flings one arm out and hits Derek across the face. “Oops, sorry.”

Derek rubs the side of his face, giving Stiles a pained look, but Stiles suspects it’s more from what he said that the accidental punch. Then Derek sighs and dumps Stiles on the floor, where he collapses in an undignified heap. Derek just slides off his stool, helps his boyfriend up and steers him toward the dance floor.

“Yes! Dancing!” Stiles exclaims, dragging Derek further into the mass of writhing, sweaty bodies. This is decidedly not what Derek was going for, and he is extremely grossed out for a second by the wave of body odour that smacks him across the face, but then Stiles distracts him by fucking _slithering_ up and down his body in a ridiculously sensual way (Stiles should not be able to be sensual and shit when he’s drunk, seriously), and yes, Derek is so on board with this dancing idea now.

Stiles gets more loose-limbed than usual when he’s drunk, and this is no exception. He tangles himself with Derek, arms and legs looped and slotted together so they move almost like one person. Stiles is warm and squirming against Derek and it’s really, really nice, except now Derek just wants to fling off all their clothes and fuck Stiles into the ground.

He tells Stiles this in a low voice, speaking right into the shell of his ear. Stiles goes kind of boneless when he says it (he claims it wasn’t a swoon, but Derek knows better. Also, it says a lot about Stiles that he _swooned_ when Derek said he wanted to fuck him in a club) and manages to groan out a “yes, yes fuck yes, take me now Derek” before trying to climb Derek like a tree.

Stiles is completely losing it, has his shirt off and is making work of Derek’s, when Derek realizes what’s going on. He just barely has enough higher brain functionality left to realize that he can’t actually fuck Stiles in a club (even though no one around them seems to be minding it) so he slides both hands under Stiles’ thighs to secure his legs around his waist, and he all but runs them out of the club, past a bewildered-looking bouncer, to his car.

He has to untangle Stiles from him, which is really difficult, especially when Stiles is drunk because he turns into a fucking octopus and suddenly has arms everywhere. And Derek means everywhere – there’s one under his shirt, one tangling fingers in his hair, one grabbing his ass, and there’s a hand down the front of his pants now, and – _fuck_.

He slams the door shut, narrowly avoiding amputating a flailing limb or two, and vaults over the car to clamber into the driver’s side.

“Really.” Stiles does not look impressed with the acrobatics. Derek shrugs, guns the engine, and slams the accelerator to the floorboard. He’s breaking about five different traffic laws by the time they hit the main road, but Derek does not give a single fuck. Not even _half_ a fuck.

And then Derek nearly crashes because three minutes into the drive, Stiles gets impatient and proceeds to give him the best road head he’s even had in his life. (Okay, it’s the only road head he’s ever had, but the principle still stands. It’s fucking good head).

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I'm on tumblr: akvade.tumblr.com


End file.
